


don't foresake me

by haalander (orphan_account)



Series: and the ships are left to rust [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, POV Derek, Scents, Selkies, courting, selkie!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/haalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something heavy inside of the wolf swells. He’s the only one who is able to see Stiles like this, beautiful and alive and real. Something cloistered and precious and his, only his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't foresake me

**Author's Note:**

> I was a little more than halfway through with this when I realized that I was writing it in present tense, as opposed to past tense which is what I usually write in. I decided to leave it because it is what it is and all that, hopefully the switch isn't too jarring. Also, this is part of a series, so you should probably read the other parts first.
> 
> Please forgive and point out mistakes.

Selkies, as Derek learns, are knotty creatures. Endlessly complex with serpentine dispositions.

It isn’t long after their fateful meeting and Derek is again prowling the shore, teeth wrapped around a small trinket. Days ago; before slipping into the gray waters, Stiles had leaned close. “In three days’ time, return to this spot with something fair to offer me.” The selkie spoke lightly, lips brushing against the shell Derek’s ear and warm breath ghosting over his wind chilled skin. “I want to test your staunchness toward me.”

Selkies, as Derek learns, adulate pretty things. Things that catch the eye and distract, a colorful shell, a speckled bird feather, a glittery stone. Things to treat like treasure and touch with reverence. Held tenderly within the cage of Derek’s fangs is a string of smooth, marbled rocks, swirled with soft dyes of pink and purple and blue. The ornament is old, older than Derek. The twine holding it together is thin and frayed, the rocks are dulled with age. Though despite its maturity, it’s still striking.

The gently heaving shore breaks suddenly when a roundly shaped seal flushes out from the spume, edging up to where the waves thin and bubble against the sable colored sand. Stiles blinks liquid eyes at Derek as he shuffles his sleek body close, thick posy of whiskers twitching as his soft, black nose wrinkles. Like this, he appears to be a simple, witless animal. Still and quiet as he listens, scents, takes everything in and figures things out. In this pretense, Stiles is merely prey.

Derek huffs, swats his tail, and paws at the wet ground, claws gouging and slicing. His black fur stands up with anxious verve. Stiles stares at him imperturbably, and then shifts. His smooth pelt slips silently to the ground, revealing the shape of a pale, lissome boy. He then smiles in a soft, secret way. “Truthfully,” Stiles greets as he pulls his coat of fur to his reedy chest and makes himself comfortable, “I did not expect to see you again.”

The wolf tips his head, delicately placing the talisman on the sand before the selkie. Stiles’ eyes flash with beguilement, and he reaches a hand outward to pluck the clutch of stones up with long, thin fingers. He holds them close to his face, just under his nose, rolling the stones and scenting the object with interest. “It smells like you, is it yours?” The selkie holds his hand out and up; facing toward the wide sky, the pearly coil settled against his palm like a curled snake. Derek moves and crushes his nose into the soft creases of Stiles’ fingers, the cold stones brushing against his muzzle. His nostrils are filled the scent of salt and damp.

He pulls away and eyes Stiles’ outstretched hand, the milky blue maze of veins under the thin skin of his wrist. He looks at Stiles’ face, young angles and sharp bones. His skin is glossy with brackish water, dark hair slicked against his forehead in a wet lank; curling a touch at the ends, clever mouth quirked and fawn eyes bright. Something heavy inside of the wolf swells. He’s the only one who is able to see Stiles like this, beautiful and alive and real. Something cloistered and precious and _his_ , only his. Derek whines and creeps closer; skin prickling as his own pelt recedes and thins, dull pain spreads as his bones snap. Re-shape. Shifting has become easier now, less painful. He’s been practicing.

Stiles’ eyes glitter, as if pleased that Derek had been willing to forego the security of fur for him. He pulls his hand away, talisman entwined around his fingers and snickers quietly. “What is it?” The selkie asks, tilting his head in an inquisitive way. The question lacks genuine concern, laced with acerbity.

Derek shakes his head and finds his voice, “it’s not mine.” He imparts, repressing a shiver as bitter, oceanic air sinks into his bared skin. “I found it, a long time go.” It’s the only object he owns, _owned,_ having left such human propensities behind. In his first year in the care of the shore, Derek had found the trinket partially concealed in the sand and sea grass, devoid of scent and long since abandoned. He doesn’t know why he had kept it, it holds no sentimental value. Perhaps he kept it to remind himself that he wasn’t a purposeless animal. That’s something he has learned, while living as a wolf. Names and object hold meaning. Hold something ineffable and significant.

The selkie makes a peculiar sound, a high keen that only he could make. “I like it.” Stiles decides with a small smile, looking up from the object to meet Derek’s eyes. Derek watches as Stiles wraps the talisman around his wrist, tucking the unraveled end so it won’t come loose. The twine a dark contrast against the pallor of Stiles’ skin as well as the stones themselves. “I have many sorts of rocks and jewels, but I’ve never had any such as these.” He explains as he runs the tip of a finger over the stringed objects. “Thank you.”

A swollen knot that had established itself within the wolf’s chest loosens at that, Stiles’ satisfaction with his gift alighting with a warm glide. “Is this the conclusion of your test, then?” Derek asks, settling down and close to the selkie. Stiles shakes his head, “Not yet. You could still very well be deceiving me.”

“Are you that unsure?” Derek asks. ‘If I remember correctly, you’ve already voiced your sound approval.”

“I’m not like you.” Stiles answers, voice terse. “I am not as powerful as you, nor do I have the ability to detect a lie.” He sighs softly, his scent remaining calm and composed. “Maybe I’m just an excellent liar and am taking advantage of you.” The selkie says dismissively.

Derek makes an incredulous noise. “I’m hardly that powerful, and candidly you could not hide a lie from me even if your life was at stake.” The selkie tuts in playful way and smiles crookedly at Derek. “Your power is more than I could say for myself at least, even if lone wolves are supposed to be weak and ineffectual.” He pauses to _hm_ and tap at his chin. “I think perhaps a test of your power should be next.” Derek blinks, unsure. “What sort of test could you possibly prepare?”

Stiles smiles, the soft skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Have patience and you’ll see.” He says, leaning forward in a quick, precipitous way to chastely press his soft lips to the tip of Derek’s nose. The wolf barely has a moment to counter before the selkie is swallowed up by his pelt and disappears into the dark, churning spray of the sea.

\----

Derek wakes up the next morning with the scent of sea slick and damp fur hanging heavily in the air, tickling his senses, wafting and curling around within the small den he had made for himself. The wolf rumbles, shakes out his fur, and slips out from between thick brambles.

It’s early; just barely daybreak. Fog relaxes with the small spruces and agitating gray waters, becoming thicker in the distance, obscuring the sky and far off views. White horses spit and swell where the water deepens; colliding in violently loud crashes against the jetty and softening into small surges on the shore, sliding up the sand in little foamy rolls. There’s a low wind, cold but sharp, pushing at the scent.

Derek inhales the aroma, catalogues it as Stiles’. He hums approvingly at the selkie, the young creature having been somehow near the wolf’s home going unnoticed.

On the ground Derek notices a small stone, one that would nestle comfortably into the palm of a human hand. Stiles’ scent clung to it; he must have left it there. The stone is flat and silky; a dark stormy gray dotted with pale spots of white, and has two gaping holes bored into it. The rims of the holes are smooth, naturally eroded by the pressure of water. Derek kindly plucks the stone up and carries it into his den, nesting in onto a soft patch of flattened grass. After the gifted stone is settled, Derek leaves the den to track Stiles’ scent.

He’s led in several different directions. The salty trails leading to odd places; the gnarled base of a tree, an aged piece of drift wood, a nosegay of large daisies, a lone deer antler. Derek blusters in frustration and snaps at the antler, catching the tines between his fangs and biting down until the object cracks and splinters. He spits out the slivers and stalks off, fur bristled and fangs bared. It’s not often that Derek is beat, even more-so at a game he’s been playing since he had first opened his eyes. Stiles had managed to perfectly mislead him by some means.

A particularly strong wind raged over from Derek’s left, bringing a fresh draft of Stiles’ scent with it. The wolf growls, anticipation rising and quickly moves to follow the scent, leaping through a thick growth of tall sea grass. With skilled practice, Derek lowers himself close to the earth and stalks through the thin blades, ears flat against his skull and muscles tightly bunched. The scent becoming stronger with each step.

Something shuffles ahead of him, a prey-like flurry of movement. Derek only hesitates for a moment before launching his heavy body forward, bursting through the vegetation. He barrels over something furry and smaller than himself, yapping in surprise as his legs tangle and trip, sending him sprawling to the sandy ground in a twisted heap.

Derek snarls and jerks his head to this side, fiery eyes locking with sharp amber colored ones. Only paces from where he’s prostrated stands a slight fox, a vixen with ruffled red fur and ample tail twitching in amusement. Stiles’ scent completely covering her own. The fox stares at him jeeringly and twitches her ears, the corners of her mouth quirking in the form of a smile. With a flash of vibrant fur she turns and bolts, lithe body engulfed by insipid colored grass, letting out a derisive caterwaul as she does so.

The predator inside of Derek tells him to chase the lesser animal, to rip her apart and spill her blood, to scatter her fur and flesh; but he remains still. Stiles must have masked several other animals with his scent, sending them on their way to leave meaningless trails for Derek to concern himself with. The wolf feels oddly proud and simultaneously enraged of his selkie. The day would be over long before he could monitor each trail. Stiles was testing him again.

Derek heaves himself up from the ground and shakes loose sand from his pelt; he tilts his snout toward the sky and tests the air. The selkies’ scent surrounds him on all sides, both in stale and fresh spoors. He’s anxious. Wants to find the seal creature and pin him, hold power over him with blunt canines worrying the back of his neck. Inwardly, Derek whines and scrabbles. A hidden part of him is left apprehensive and wanting.

Another trail leads him to a small muskrat. Derek thunders and snaps the rodent up with his jaws, crunching it and swallowing it whole.

Hours pass and he’s caught up to several different creatures. A snake, an unfortunate half-eaten crab, a deer with a single antler. The sun has emerged and is glaring proudly from His post in the sky when Derek finds himself on the beach, standing before a branch that’s been vertically placed into the sand. The wolf sighs in disappointment and sits back on his haunches; he knocks the limb to the ground petulantly. He’s tired and hungry, wants to fill his stomach and sleep under the warm hands of the sun. But he also wants to find Stiles; his chest is tight with anxious need. Derek exhales loudly, a loud blast of air through his nostrils. He tilts his head backward and lets out a low, drawn out howl.

It could be a sign that he’s given up, that he’s failed. Or it could be that his instinct has simply taken over and he is doing as any wolf would; calling out in hopes of response. The howling continues until Derek senses a jittery movement behind him.

He turns around, stands up and narrows his eyes. Stiles is sitting in front of him by several bounds, freckled pelt slung over his one of his shoulders and knobby legs crossed neatly. He smiles and waggles his fingers in Derek’s direction. “I had no idea that you would give up that easily.” The selkie muses, “or that you would not notice that I was following behind you all this time.”

Derek snarls and dips his head downward, a rush of anger and relief washing over him. He’s unsure if he wants to rip Stiles’ throat out or drag him back to his den, to curl around him until his scent is washed out by Derek’s own. He decided to stalk forward and push the selkie to the ground, covering Stiles’ body with his own and locking his chops around Stiles’ neck, teeth gently digging into the skin. Stiles yelps but relaxes proximately, hands hesitantly slipping up to stroke and grip the fur on Derek’s sides. He smiles, soft.

Derek smiles too, or as much as a wolf can in any case.

**Author's Note:**

> The fox may or may not have been Kira. You can be the judge of that.
> 
> im [softposey](http://softposey.tumblr.com)  
> on tumblr


End file.
